The Last Spike eBook

The old Indian pointed to the ground with an expression
which looked to the white men like an interrogation.
Cromwell nodded, and the Indian began to dig.
Cromwell brought a shovel, and they began sinking a
shaft.

The English-American, with a sickening, sinking sensation,
turned toward the cabin. The boy preceded him
and stood in the door. The man put his hand on
the boy’s head and was about to enter when he
caught sight of a nugget at the boy’s neck.
He stooped and lifted it. The boy shrank back,
but the man, going deadly pale, clutched the child,
dragging the nugget from his neck.

Now all the Indian in the boy’s savage soul
asserted itself, and he fought like a little demon.
Pitying the child in its impotent rage, the man gave
him the nugget and turned away.

Across the valley an Indian woman came walking rapidly,
her arms full of turnips and onions and other garden-truck.
The white man looked and loathed her; for he felt
confident that Ramsey had been murdered, his trinkets
distributed, and his carcass cast to the wolves.

When the boy ran to meet the woman, the white man
knew by his behavior that he was her child. When
the boy had told his mother how the white man had
behaved, she flew into a rage, dropped her vegetables,
dived into the cabin, and came out with a rifle in
her hands. To her evident surprise the man seemed
not to dread death, but stood staring at the rifle,
which he recognized as the rifle he had sent to Ramsey.
To his surprise she did not shoot, but uttering a
strange cry, started up the slope, taking the gun
with her. With rifle raised and flashing eyes
she ordered the two men out of the prospect hole.
Warlike as she seemed, she was more than welcome,
for she was a woman and could talk. She talked
Cree, of course, but it sounded good to Cromwell.
Side by side the handsome young athlete and the Cree
woman sat and exchanged stories.

Half an hour later the Englishman came up and asked
what the prospect promised.

“Ah,” said Cromwell, sadly, “this
is another story. There is no gold in this vale,
though from what this woman tells me the hills are
full of it. However,” he added, “I
believe we have found your friend.”

“Yes?” queried the capitalist.

“Yes,” echoed Cromwell, “here are
his wife and his child; and here, where we’re
grubbing, his grave.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said the big, warm-hearted
English-American, glaring at the ground; “and
that was Ramsey’s ‘reason’ for not
writing.”

THE GREAT WRECK ON THE PERE MARQUETTE

The reader is not expected to believe this red tale;
but if he will take the trouble to write the General
Manager of the Pere Marquette Railroad, State of Michigan,
U.S.A. enclosing stamped envelope for answer, I make
no doubt that good man, having by this time recovered
from the dreadful shock occasioned by the wreck, will
cheerfully verify the story even to the minutest detail.